


Notes

by micehell



Category: Shallow Grave (1994)
Genre: Drama, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-11-03
Updated: 2005-11-03
Packaged: 2017-11-12 04:09:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/486523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/micehell/pseuds/micehell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The note came in the post</p>
            </blockquote>





	Notes

**Author's Note:**

> Written for NNNoN and all that entails, so heed the warnings.

The note came in the post. Plain white paper, cheap. No return address, no postage stamp on the envelope. It said, "You took something of mine without giving me anything in return."

Alex was out of the apartment the next morning, leaving most of his things behind.

::::::::::

Berlin was fun. Kinky. And Alex was young, rich, and enjoying it all. He lived in an apartment where the Wall used to be, nothing remaining but expensive real estate and a memorial, and he played until morning with all the prettiest girls and boys.

The note came in the post. Plain, white, cheap. "You owe me."

Alex left the apartment that night, leaving almost everything behind.

::::::::::

Cayman Brac was beautiful. Discreet. He walked the shore of Hawksbill Bay, tracks following behind him in the sand until the waves washed them away.

He'd found someone who specialized in waves, who'd made his tracks disappear. It had cost him quite a lot, but it was worth it. Alex watched the sun rise over the bay, wondering why it didn't feel that way.

The note was on the foyer floor. Plain white threat. "I'm here."

Alex never even made it through the door.

::::::::::

The beating he expected. Slaps to the face, punches to the stomach, kicks while he was down. A hand in his hair, holding his head still for blow after blow, pulling back until he thought his neck would snap.

Death he expected. The man leaning over him, voice low, harsh in Alex's ear, all the words but 'kill you' running together in his head as the hand in his hair drew him in closer. The words became clear, discrete, "Bite and I'll kill you", as the cock pushed past his split lips, making him gag as it pressed into his throat.

This he hadn't expected. He almost bit by accident, the threat not enough to keep him from struggling for air. The hand in his hair pulled harder, keeping his head in place as his mouth was fucked, even as the rest of him tried to break free.

Alex was coughing, sucking in lungfuls of oxygen when the cock pulled out of his mouth. There was a slap across his face, almost casual in its violence, and Alex had a moment of crazy hope that it was over, the worst behind him, when he heard the man say, "That should be enough."

Another slap left his head spinning, the world swirling away from him for a time, the glazed blue tile of the foyer floor coming up to meet him. The tile was cool, pretty, and he rubbed his bruised cheek against it as he admired its color, the slight wave pattern you could see if you were close. But the tile was hard, painful, as his head was pushed into it, as his hips were pulled up, as the cock split him open with only a drying film of saliva to ease the way.

He screamed, unable to help himself. The survivor in him wanted to relax, to be submissive enough to live through this, but it hurt so badly, every thrust tearing into him. He tried to crawl away, but he was pinned by the hand on his head, the knees on his legs, the cock in his body.

With a strained grunt, the man came, and Alex almost cried in relief. The relief was short-lived, though, as he was pulled down the hall, blood and ejaculate running in trickles down his legs, smearing on the sheets as he was thrown on the bed.

It went on too long, the day marked in cycles of the man coming and sleeping, waking and fucking, again and again. His mouth, his ass, his hair, his skin, every touch taking something from him.

Dawn was stealing through the window, casting its rosy glow across his body, hands behind his back, feet pulled close, knees spread wide, bound with torn sheets and exhaustion. The man pumped his cock slowly, painting Alex with thin strands of semen, the sun lighting it like a string of pearls in his hair, across his face, his lips, his chest.

The hand left the cock, rubbing the semen into bruised lips, bloody nipples. "Beautiful."

::::::::::

He'd almost died by the time the maid found him late in the afternoon, still tied on the bed. He spent weeks in the hospital, letting his body heal, ignoring the psychiatrists.

The note came with a bouquet, the only one he'd received. White card, scented, expensive. "Money well spent."

He signed out of the hospital AMA, leaving everything behind.

::::::::::

Jack walked home from work, worn out from the boredom of writing obituaries all day. He hated the job, hated the paper, but money was tight, and his apartment wasn't free, no matter how crappy it was.

As he walked, he kept a close eye on the corners and alleys, on the people who passed. He fingered the knife he had in his pocket when anyone came too close.

The apartment really was crappy, run down and worn except for the door, heavy and solid, the locks, expensive and safe. There was a package on the doorstep, a foot cubed of thin cardboard that seemed to steal the air from Jack's lungs.

He hadn't ordered anything; the new name, the new life having taken all his money. He handled the package like a bomb, like a plague. Laid it on the table, flaps falling open, notes of cream, slate and green peeking out, zeros running across the paper. Expensive indeed.

There was a fold of white, and Jack pulled it out, shaking fingers crinkling the page. "Some things are more precious than money. Consider this a down payment."

He went to the bathroom, pulling the razor from the shower, tracing a finger down the sharp edge, the swell of blood dark in the dim, grim room. He looked in the mirror, at his face lined in worry, and remembered what it was to laugh wildly. To be heedless, careless, fun. What it was like to be free. He fingered the blade again.

Jack died that night.

The next day Alex had a new bank account, a new apartment, bay windows facing out onto the Bay, red iron rising over white-capped blue in the distance. His new Gucci loafers left a faint mark on the note that lay on the floor, but he ignored it, moving over the threshold into his new life.

/story


End file.
